Shake Hands with the Devil
by Rogue Trooper 2.0
Summary: When faced with an impossible choice, Maj. Navaronne Ortona is forced into a deal with the man who helped bring the Empire and the Republic to their knees. **Based in the SW:TOR timeline. Mild spoilers for the Eternal Empire expansion, profanity, violence. Will become increasingly dark in subsequent chapters. Reviews always appreciated.**
WARNING: This story takes place between the events of first contact with the Eternal Empire and the Outlander's rescue five years later in the MMO SW:TOR, so consider that your spoiler alert. It will become NSFW in subsequent chapters so if you're under your country's 'age of majority' and you are reading this, you shouldn't be. Go watch SW:Rebels instead and come back when you're old enough to vote.

 **Star Wars: The Old Republic**

 **Shake Hands with the Devil**

The sounds of the firefight intensified though it was almost eclipsed by the sound of her pounding heart. Jorgan's breathing, heavy with fatigue and pain, came clearly over the com. The smoke got thinner as she neared his position, as it had a thousand times before, as though the cathar Captain was in the eye of the hellish storm around him. Jorgan's back pressed heavily into the low, dilapidated duracrete wall as blaster fire chewed into the other side to shower him with grit and debris. The smoke beyond the wall was too thick to discern the enemy position and no two bolts ever seemed to come from the same firing position. Jorgan held his sidearm at the ready, but his blaster rifle lay smoking upon the bloodied ground, the power cell depleted. She was drawing closer to him at a dead run as the incoming fire lightened and Jorgan rose from behind the wall to return fire at the smoke shrouded figures a few dozen yards away. The first bolt took the armoured Cathar in the upper right side of the chest, staggering him. Jorgan bared his teen in pain and a second bolt drilled into him center-mass while the third and final bolt hit him squarely in the heart and spun the Republic Commando around. Aric Jorgan staggered and fell to his knees as she reached him and the Major caught him as he fell. More than two hundred pounds of dead weight brought Ortona to her knees and seeing the life slowly leave his bright green eyes tore out her heart, as it had a thousand times before. She tore off her helmet and Aric reached a bloodied hand towards her cheek. Taking it in her own, she pressed her face to it as his eyes went blank and the hot tears began rolling down her pale cheeks. The incoming fire had ceased, but smoke-obscured figures moved restlessly beyond the wall and Navaronne could hear indistinct voices. Though she had relived this dream a thousand thousand times before, the grief was still real and very raw. The outcome was always the same, and the pain never lessened, like a punch to a deep, festering wound.

The figure appeared at her side paid no heed to her agony, merely looking down upon her with a mix of amusement and scorn. Navaronne's bloodshot grey eyes glowered up at Valkorion and both anguish and rage made her lips pull back in a snarl. "Enough! How many times do I have to endure this?"

"Until the message is internalized, I suppose." As ever, Valkorion was the picture of calm "But you're mistaken, girl. Nothing here is of my making. You need no help torturing yourself." The same answer, as it was a thousand times before. "Let him _go_ , and free yourself of this pain." Major Navaronne Ortona, commanding officer of Havoc Squad, was about to give Emperor the same profane reply she had countless times before, but Valkorion's golden eyes shifted abruptly from her to the milling figures in the smoke. They were becoming more distinct and were now drawing closer. Something was different this time, and a sinister chill crawled up her back. Valkorion's outward appearance changed little, though the golden eyes narrowed and one grey brow rose. The Emperor looked down upon her and his words were hard. "Let go of love and foolish loyalties, if you wish to survive what is to come." Valkorion's presence within her mind withdrew as everything went unexpectedly black around her. Navaronne felt a spike of panic as she was overwhelmed by the sensation of having the ground pulled from beneath her feet.

The voices around her were but coolly professional. The sensation of disembodied freefall was short lived, replaced by a growing feeling of constriction in her chest, as though all the air she would ever breathe was being squeezed from her lungs. Instinctual panic gripped her, only made worse by the feel of strong hands trying to restraining her. While three sets of hands endeavoured to hold her down, another roughly removed her armour and though the world around her remained black, the voice slowly began to come into focus. Something jabbed into her arm and the pain pulsed like the sting of a venomous insect.

"BP is dropping." The male voice warned. "Blood oxygen concentration is ninety percent and falling."

"Dammit, hold her down. I can't get the trache tube in with her fighting like this." The second voice was male as well, but older and greatly annoyed. Yet another pair of hands pressed themselves to the sides of her head as the Republic commando gasped uselessly for air.

"Major?" A woman's voice this time, firm and commanding. "Navaronne? Can you hear me?" Blank grey eyes that perceived nothing but darkness moved in the direction of the female's voice indicating that despite everything that seemed to be _not_ working, at least her ears did. "Navaronne, calm down. You have severed hibernation sickness. Blink if you understand." The blink came, desperate in its deliberateness. "We're going to help you, but you need to stop fighting us." Ortona's jaws were pried open and a cold plast tube snaked down her throat, making her gag until a rush of air cause the painful constriction in her lungs to ease. In its place, a lance of white-hot pain tore through her chest.

"She's going tachy." The first voice warned again. As cold metal pressed against the base of her throat and slowly drew from sternum to groin as the layered mesh fabric of her under-armour body glove was cut away. The grey eyes began to grow blank and unfocused. The restraining hands pulled away as the commando stopped fighting. The voices around her seemed to grow distant.

"We're losing her."

"No BP."

"She's flatlining."

The last thing she heard was the sound of the heart monitor registering no rhythm.

Slowly, Nav came to the realization that she was still among the living. Her chest ached, but the heart within still beat. Her throat felt as though she'd been made to swallow a bucket of sand, but she was breathing on her own. The air was cool on her face and the rooms illumination panels were mercifully dim. Still groggy, it took far too much effort to swing her legs over the side of the reclined medical bed, so much so the veteran soldier thought better than to try and stand. She began to take stock – all fingers and toes accounted for and functioning, though her extremities felt heavy and weak, as though having gone unused for a long period of time. An IV needle securely taped to the back of her hand led to a stand next to the bed from which dangled a half empty bag of what appeared to be simple saline. The small, spartan room's door opened and a medical droid rolled in.

"I would advise against physical activity." It told her in the irritatingly cheerful and professional tone all med droids seemed programmed with. "Your hibernation sickness was quite severe. "

"Where am I?" Navaronne's voice was as gravelly as her throat felt, and nearly as painful.

"I am not at liberty to discuss that information." The droid replied cheerfully as it approached. Ortona did not resist as the droid took her vitals. If they wanted to kill her, they'd wouldn't have gone through the trouble of resuscitating her in the first place. "You will be gratified to hear that you are growing stronger by the day, though the weakness you are currently experiencing will take time to fade."

"Hooray." She replied without enthusiasm. "How long have I been here?" Navaronne wasn't even sure why she bothered, as she guess the answer before the droid had the chance to say 'I am not at liberty to discuss that information'. Before the droid to articulate its reply, the sterile white room's only door opened and an all too familiar figure strode through. The commando staggered to her feet, grey eyes narrowed in silent but intense hatred.

"Leave us." Arcann didn't even look at the droid. Ortona's glance flashed to the door and saw at least three Knights of Zakuul waiting in the hall before it closed behind the droid with a hiss of pneumatics. From the sounds of heavy boots shifting in the corridor, there were many more than just three guards outside. The Emperor watched the commando waver on her feet and smirked beneath the mask that concealed more than half of his face. "Sit." He indicated the bed behind her with vague gesture of his cybernetic left hand. Loathed to obey, but too exhausted to be contrary, Navaronne decided sitting was preferable to collapsing at Arcann's feet. The ward gown she wore crawled upward half the length of her thighs, but she either didn't notice or just didn't care.

"To what do I owe this honour." She dared not openly mock him, but her tone indicated his visit was anything but.

"Charming, as always." He replied dryly. Nothing about him seemed to have changed; same haircut, same mask, same sinister calm. Only the lines on his face gave any hint that more than a few hours had passed since their last unpleasant meeting. Those deepened lines at the corner of the young Emperor's yellow eye and a slight, permanent furrow to his brow cause a sudden, terrible ripple of dread through her guts. "Your time in my trophy room hasn't improved your attitude any."

"How _much_ time?" Navaronne dreaded the answer before the words even left her lips.

"There has been considerable change in the galaxy in the three years you've been frozen in carbonite." Arcann pulled a datapad from his belt and tossed it to the seated commando. Despite her fatigue, she caught the spinning object handily enough. As her grey gaze fell to the device's screen, the woman's already pale face when ashen. "The Empire and the Republic have bent the knee to my rule. There are no more warring factions, only peace beneath the shadow of the Eternal Empire's banner." Navaronne's mouth went dry. Three _years_? The datapad was live feed, dated and timestamped, from the Republic Holonet, recording within the Great Hall the Senate building on Coruscant. The Major recognized Chancelor Saresh, but in her numbed state of disbelief, Ortona could not discern what the woman was saying. If this was some elaborate ruse, whoever had arranged the details of Saresh's makeup was a master. The lines about her mouth and eyes were heavier than Ortona remembered, as though the stress of what had transpired had etched far more than three years worth of stress upon the leader of the Republic. Her thoughts drifted to Aric Jorgan. Was he still alive? The thought that he might actually be dead terrified her.

"So you've thawed me out to what, gloat?" Her shoulders sagged with fatigue and she looked away in feigned disinterest. Arcann wasn't fooled – he could almost reach out and touch the deep despair that clung to her like a shroud. "If so, get on with it, and then get out." Ortona tossed the datapad at Arcann's feet and it clattered as it hit the toe of his boot.

That yellow eye became cold and hard with annoyance at her tone, as though she were an impertinent servant who had forgotten her place, but it subsided as quickly as it had flared. "On the contrary. I have come with an offer."

"I didn't bend the knee to your father. I won't bend it to you either." All she wanted to do now was sleep. Whether she ever awoke again didn't matter to her at the moment.

"You mistake my intent. I have not come with an offer of power shared between us. Even as dispirited as you are at the moment, you're far too dangerous to have running loose in my galaxy." He apparently found her suddenly amusing. _Let go of love and foolish loyalties, if you wish to survive what is to come…_ Valkorion's words echoed in her mind. The thought of being frozen in carbonite again filled her with a fresh sense of dread.

Sighing irritably and Navaronne drew her hands down her face. "Force users and their fucking riddles… I'm not in the mood for games, Arcann. Just speak plainly."

"I require an heir." He replied simply. "You will provide me with one and the manner in which this is accomplished will be of your choosing." The commando's face went blank for a moment and after a few bewildered looking blinks, Ortona looked up at him from her seated position on the bed before breaking out into sudden gales of surprised laughter.

He took one long stride and closed the distance between them and his cybernetic hand closed around her throat, lifting the woman from her seat on the bed to dangle nearly a foot from the floor's cold white tiles. The laughter died instantly and though he set the commando on her feet once more, his cold cybernetic hand remained threateningly around her throat. "You…have my attention." Ortona's hands clutched desperately at the one about her throat as black spots appeared in her field of vision. Through the cybernetic's sensors, he could feel the throb of her pulse and it did not take the Force to sense her tightly leashed fear. He drew closer, as though his words were for her ears only, and his grip slacked enough so that she could breathe once more.

"I could just force myself on you to get what I want." The threat in his words was unmistakable, but his tone was almost tender. "But rape is beneath me." While only one of his golden yellow eyes was free of the foreboding mask he wore, it felt as though he were looking straight through her. "If you wish, I can have you tucked safely away in a private medical bay and rendered unconscious through induced coma. Using artificial insemination, you will produce at least one male heir. After you have served your purpose, your fate will again be a carbonite slab, though you will have a renewed place of honour in my trophy room." He took silent pleasure at the horrified look on the hardened veteran's face. When her lips parted to speak, he pressed the index finger of his undamaged hand to them, silencing whatever words were forming. "You can, however, choose to submit. I ask no loyalty from you, only your word that no escape will be attempted and you won't waste my time by trying to kill me in my sleep." From the way the muscles in the right side of his jaw twitched, Nav was certain he was smirking. "Reneging on your word will automatically land you in the aforementioned comatose state. There will be no second chances." A deep, heavy silence stretched between the two for a handful of moments.

 _Let go of love and foolish loyalties…_ She silently curse Valkorian and somewhere, deep within her mind, she could sense his dark presence, though it seemed muted compared to when she had been locked in carbonite.

"And what's in it for me?" The Major's words made Arcann chuckle softly. This was the Navaronne Ortana he was looking for; not the Republic war hero, but the pragmatic survivor. Arcann knew he would never turn the woman to his cause, but while she was loyal to the ideals of the Republic, Ortona was also a soldier with a very flexible moral compass. This was a woman, who by turns, had risked her life to save civilians but had killed Imperial personnel, even prisoners, with impunity when they no longer served her purpose, or simply out of irritation if they held no strategic value. A soldier who'd stood as a paragon of duty and honour, but one in whose shadow lay her black market arms dealings with Havoc's demolitions expert Tanno Vik that had amassed a comfortable personal fortune. During her career with Havoc, Ortona had demonstrated the ability to kill without conscience, remorse, or even hesitation. Imperial Special Forces troops had considered her, over even the fearsome M1-4X battle droid at her command, to be death incarnate. For all Navaronne's decorations, citations and accolades, it sometimes seemed the only difference between the commando and those she fought was the insignia she wore.

"A much softer, easier life that you're used to." His thumb traced her jaw and while there was no affection in the gesture, it was gentle enough. "You will remain my 'guest', but I think you will find the accommodations acceptable." The cybernetic hand finally released her throat and Arcann used his thumb and forefinger to raise her chin. "You will share my bed willingly, or at least with the pretense of it. Any children we conceive will remain in your care, if you wish. If you have no interest in mothering them, other arrangements will be made for their care, but for as long as you hold to our bargain, you need not fear being returned to a carbonite slab." His deep voice became softer, though it was only a silk glove over a durasteel fist. Had the mask not covered his face, their lips would have brushed. "I can be as gentle, or otherwise, as you desire but make no mistake - you will never know affection at my hands."

Ortona pressed herself against him but her words were cold. "Likewise". The 'deal', such as it was, left her no actual choice and deciding had taken less than the span between two heartbeats. If she was not comatose and strapped to a hospital bed, there was always a chance she could find a means of escape, or die trying. Navaronne wavered on her feet and Arcann put his arm around the commando's waist to keep her knees from buckling. The Emperor set her down upon the bed and Nav turned her back on him to stretch out upon it. Having received his answer, Arcann took his leave. When the door hissed shut behind him, Ortona closed her eyes and as sleep slowly claimed her, Nav's last thoughts were of Jorgan. _Forgive me, Aric_ …


End file.
